


The Title Was Your Name

by abadeerly



Series: Crack Fics/AU's [4]
Category: Adventure Time
Genre: AU, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 19:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16793380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abadeerly/pseuds/abadeerly
Summary: Nothing comes out but the condensation of your breath. The weather has been wanting to snow for a while.





	The Title Was Your Name

**Author's Note:**

> Tried something new. I actually really enjoyed writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it.

You’re not sure when it happens.You’re not even sure _why_ it happens, but at some point over the course of the six months that she’s been _pestering_ you, you’ve kind of… started to anticipate it? In a good way and not in the ‘I better make sure she doesn’t get the idea that I’m a good person’ kind of way.

She’s two inches taller than you, and you’re almost always used to seeing her in one of the school’s lab coats. Or her own, because of course she’d have her own _lab coat._ God, she’s _peppy_ too; beaming at you from across the hallways in those futile (but sometimes not as futile as you’d like) attempts to get you to realise that she’s not the devil incarnate. Who _beams_ at you other than your uncle? Or sometimes Keila when she’s drunk and you come to pick her up at midnight. Bonnibel Brian does, apparently, and it irks you to no end.

It’s scary, and fear is a foreign concept to someone who was arrested for punching a teacher in the gut because he made a homophobic comment, but Bonnibel’s eyes are the last thing you expected to think of when you got knocked out in a fight with your ex.

There are murmurs when you come to, soft and far off. You suspect you’re still on the floor; still damp from the rainfall that morning and hard under your head, which throbbed as you gradually came to and opened your eyes to see a crowd of students peering in awe down at you. 

It was stupid when that flash of pink hair was the first thing that made the flurry of stars in your vision disappear. It was stupid when her voice was the first your ears picked out from the crowd. You didn’t even have to put any thought into doing it; it just kind of happened subconsciously as if your body, so used to your fight or flight mentality you’d adopted, decided that she was worth not worrying over, deemed her as ‘ _safe_ ’.

You found yourself being picked up from the ground, dragged into the school building, hauled into a seat in the waiting area of the nurses office, followed closely by Bonnibel and her worried stare. Something about it all seemed too slow, yet too fast for your brain to actually comprehend. You’d told your ex that he was a loser, he had pushed you against the wall and spat in your face, and then it all went a little blurry.

The nurse tells you that you may have a concussion. She patches your scrapes and bruises up, presses ice to the throbbing area on your scalp, smiles warmly at you. And Bonnibel just _helps_.

You realise later on that she helped the nurse out frequently. Good Samaritan and all that. It’s almost comedic how easy it is to just __look__ at the the girl and know that she’s smart and kind and one of those people you usually avoid.

You decide that maybe letting her befriend you isn’t going to be as exhausting as when you’ve let other people because she actually wants to be your friend. She doesn’t want you for drama or gossip. Bonnibel Brian just wants to be close to you.

And that’s _terrifying _.__

For everything you’ve made yourself out to be, someone worth getting friendly with isn’t one of them. Bonnibel makes you feel like maybe you’ve been doing a bad job of that.

You’re alone in the park when you see her again. It’s strange, almost coincidental, that Bonnibel is in the park near your house at seven o’clock on a school night. You’re sat on the swing set, enjoying the chilly night breeze on your arms and the solitude that it gives you.

You see her hair first. Naturally, it’s bright pink and is a stellar contrast against the already inky sky. Her hands, mostly covered in purple mittens save for her fingers, were clutching the straps of her trusty camera around her neck. It’s easy to forget that Bonnibel’s hobbies didn’t just include boring lectures and science jargon. Photography has been her side passion since she was tiny, you can remember - even when you didn’t _know_ her - looking over at her snapping pictures in the playground at aged seven. She was the ‘Weird camera girl’ before anything else, before ‘Scientist’ and ‘Student body president’.

You open your mouth as she draws closer, still not seeing you now sat still on the swing, and you want to thank her for helping you out. Nothing comes out but the condensation of your breath.

The weather has been wanting to snow for a while.

“Hello,” Manages to stammer out from your still open mouth. It’s quiet, but the silence around the park had only been interrupted by her footfall and the swing beside you.

Bonnibel turns around, rosy cheeked and eyes widening only for a second. They’re soft when they focus on you. “Hey,” You can tell she wants her to smile to be bigger; the way the corner of her mouth twitches as she stops dead in her tracks. It’s almost picturesque with the dull white glow of the street lights from beyond the light mist. “Aren’t you cold?”

You offer a half shrug and glance away for a second, putting a little too much thought into the reply. “I come out here a lot this time of year. It’s pretty.”

There’s a line of thought in your mind that wants her next words to be ‘ _You’re_ pretty’.

“It is.” She agrees instead, exhaling and watching her breath ascend. “I came out here to get some snaps of the empty park,” You find it cute when she lifts the camera and waggles it around.

In all truthfulness, you think you had a crush on her when she _was_ just the weird camera girl. Seven year old you was just terrified of the possibility of liking girls. It makes too much sense now, after you’ve figured your sexuality out, because the feelings _didn’t_ hit you like a ton of bricks. They just kind of rekindled, slowly.

There’s the noise of boots on the gravel path, and she’s suddenly taking a picture of you on the swing set, tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth, eyes screwed into a concentrated squint. The flash blinds you for a second, leaving a white blob in your vision.

You’ve never thought of yourself photogenic enough for casual candid photos from friends, but the way Bonnibel looks at her camera afterwards make you think that maybe just once you looked okay in a picture.

“Did you walk far?” You ask when she’s taking pictures of the faraway lights and landscape of the field behind you.

She doesn’t respond at first, too busy focussing her camera and looking at the pictures she’d taken, but when she does she’s smiling and staring at you with those eyes again and there’s a sticky feeling in your chest that you’ve learned to like. “I drove, so no. My house is on the other end of the village.” You nod and go back to pushing yourself gently on the swing, scuffing the soles of your shoes against the dirt. “What about you?”

You’re so taken aback by her wanting to continue the conversation that you _almost_ lose balance and fall. She doesn’t notice, or at least pretends to ignore it, and continues taking photos. “My house is just up the road.” And you jab a thumb over at the street.

A little over twenty minutes go by of you unabashedly admiring her from where you’re sat. The night begins to get a little chillier, just enough for goosebumps to form on your arms. She hums and finally puts her camera down, a little triumphant smile on her face, and you kind of want to ask her to stay a while. A car goes by and disturbs the pleasant silence.

“How’s your head?” The soft question is out of nowhere. “Hope he didn’t hit you too hard.”

The incident happened last week, but she’s walking over to the swing beside you and this might be your chance at a one to one conversation with her.

“Hurt like a mother for a couple days. It’s fine now, though.”

She hoists herself onto the seat, pushes up from the ground to get height and just rocks for a moment saying nothing. “Can I use that photo of you for my school project?”

You can _feel_ your cheeks burning and look away in an attempt to stop her from seeing. “Why?”

“I dunno,” She shrugs, looking down at her crossed legs. At times like this, you wish you could read minds. “You look… nice. I want nice things in my portfolio.” And she shows you the slightly-blurry-but-in-an-artistic-way photo. The heat in your cheeks rages.

“Sure,” You manage to not make it sound too strangled. “You look nice too.”

She laughs and her eyes twinkle in the moonlight. “And that’s genuine?”

“I’m nothing but genuine,” You breath. “You’re lovely.” The admission is a little too soft for your liking, but she smiles big and you’re swear your heart swells and sighs.

You’re only aware that it’s started to snow because of the cold wet that meets your bare arms. The both of you peer up at the light snowfall, like falling stars from the black, before Bonnibel looks at you.

“Can I tell you a secret?” She whispers, leaning forwards only slightly.

“Of course,” You nod and lean forward too, which is dumb because the park is _empty_ , and there’s suddenly not a lot of space between you both. You’re eyes only focus for a few seconds, and you swear that she’s looking at your chapped and sore lips, but that doesn’t really matter when she closes the gap and kisses you soundly.

“That wasn’t a secret.” Falls from your mouth when she pulls away, all red cheeks and smiles. But she doesn’t say anything at all, instead opting to stand from her seat and begin to walk away with your heart.

She does turn though, and you didn’t notice that you’d stood from the swing - or that the snow had begun to fall a little heavier - and she waves at you. “I’ll see you at school, Marceline.”

You don’t see her at school the next day; she’d gotten a cold and had to stay at home. You did however manage to get her number from a friend, and you’d even managed to text her first.

She takes you to go see her portfolio in the art room the week after once she’d recovered. The main photo, the one that was in the middle and was _huge_ , was the artistically blurry photo of a cold teenager on a swing at night. The title was your name.


End file.
